


Butter

by Oplopanax



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: AU, M/M, Mpreg, Unfinished, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 15:28:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13238652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oplopanax/pseuds/Oplopanax
Summary: “Condoms, even when used correctly, are only 85% effective," the andrologist points out, providing this information exactly 8 weeks 3 days too late. Christ.





	Butter

**Author's Note:**

> One of my surprisingly large collection of unfinished Phil Kessel mpregs. Not gonna finish this one.

Phil is licking the butter when he notices he's being weird: he'd started out poking the stick on a bread plate with his fork, then drawing the tines through the soft part, making patterns, then licking the butter off the fork, then picked up the plate and licked the butter. Huh.  
"Fuck you, Phaneuf." he mutters when he notices, and licks it again just to be contrary. It's not really like him though. He's a sweets guy, not grease. He stares out the window into the unrelenting Florida sun and shrugs. Beginning of the off season is the time for taking it easy, but yeah. Maybe better lay off eating straight butter. 

It happens again while they're out on the boat - Bozie's hauling in a grouper and Phil suddenly thinks _goddamn_. Just take a huge, raw chomp: he can practically feel the give of the flesh under his teeth, the juice. Just as suddenly he's overcome by revulsion and barely makes it to the back of the boat in time. Dozens of little fish come up and Phil watches them eat puke. It makes him puke again: Phil hangs over the edge heaving and considers the circle of life. It's not really the circle of life he thinks. Unless he falls overboard and snaps one of them up in his teeth. He considers this still gasping and spitting. He could probably do it, his reflexes are off the charts. Still, what's the point? Then he's got a mouthful of raw fish and Bozie would have to haul him back out of the water somehow, and the circle would be broken, and it all seems like a lot of hassle. Phil spits again, and only then does Bozie notice. Jeeze.  
“You alright?” 

The cancer surgery and chemo has left him with a hormonal profile somewhere bewilderingly in between male and female, and as a Carrier that's a recipe for enhanced fertility, but the decision was made, back in the Boston days, to leave it there. Additional hormones mean additional risk of recurrence. Phil knows this, and that's why he never has sex without a condom. 

“Condoms, even when used correctly, are only 85% effective,” the andrologist points out, providing this information exactly 8 weeks 3 days too late. Christ.

Additional information the andrologist provides; this pregnancy and its attendant hormonal upheaval also increases the risk of recurrence.  
“How much?”  
"Somewhat. Not enormously, but meaningful. However, a lot of the damage is already done - the bulk of the hormonal changes occur up front, although obviously longer exposure to pregnancy hormones doesn't help. "

That's great. Phil writes that down on his pad of paper, a habit left over from last time, when he didn't feel upset, just like now, but couldn't remember anything the doctors told him unless he'd written it down. _15-25%_ he writes. _Increase chance of, not % of recurrence_. His mom will want to know the numbers. Bozie won't, he's not like that, not a worrier. Phil’s mom is going to flip.

He writes down _Dec. 18_ and circles it. Bozie will want to know that, he's got a weird thing about astrology. Phil has no idea what sign a December birthday would be, but he knows Bozie's a Cancer, and Phil is Taurus, because Bozie loves to go on about it. He writes _6 weeks postp. resume vig. exercise._ A whole season shot. He'll be 28 this season, 29 before he play again. Each year a whittling away of his 10, 15? years of good play. He'll be 29 either way, he supposes.

Phil drives home again, through the Florida sun. Sometimes the heat makes mirages on the highway. Nothing odd, that happened in Wisconsin summers too. Phil doesn't know if it happens in Toronto, he's never stayed for a summer. In Florida, though, the mirages look different. Green pools of water, thick and viscous spreading across the highway. In Wisconsin they looked like clouds of steam coming up off the asphalt. Something to do with the humidity, he wonders? Doesn't matter really. Bozie's going to flip, a little. 

Florida has no state tax, and sun, and private islands for rich people. That's why Phil is here, but Florida also has alligators, anacondas idiots keep releasing into the swamps, giant concrete eating snails. Guns. Stand your ground laws. Laws on the books against sodomy, against adoption by gay couples, racism so stark even Phil can see it, private islands for rich people. He doesn't want to get married right now, he's always thought that was stupid, getting married because of a pregnancy, but he can see it in the distance as a possibility. Not here, though, where the end of his lawn that borders the canal is protected by a 5 foot high concrete 'gator wall. 

Can't put a baby on that lawn. 

Phil drives on to his rich person island, home again. Bozie has let Stella out and moved to the couch, but done nothing else this morning. He's lying there in his underwear and makes grabby hands at Phil, expecting his usual Florida favourite, a Chik-fil-A sausage biscuit.  
"What did you bring me?"

"I bring you news!" Phil says, striking what he imagines to be a prophetic pose. "News of the King in the East! Unto YOU a new child is born!"  
Bozie just looks at him blankly: fucking atheist Canadians. 

"To you, a new Christchild has come?" Phil says. "Hark, the herald angels? No?" 

Bozie scratches above the waistband of his boxers and then his hand begins to travel south.  
“No biscuit?”, he says.


End file.
